


Sweeney Todd Style

by huntressofdreams



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Violence, murder spree, not exactly graphic but close
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 22:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1794673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huntressofdreams/pseuds/huntressofdreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty takes interest in a strange girl after he finds her victim, cut up and tortured in more than one way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweeney Todd Style

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to tumblr account murder-of-the-magpies, who the OC is based on

"And one for my mom," a girl exclaimed, whipping her hand around. "And one for my cat." Another whip. "And another cat. And another." Two more. "And three for my sister." Her hand came around three more times.

"Please," the man in front of her begged. "Please. I'm sorry, just please . . ."

"You hurt my family, I hurt you," she told him. "It's really that simple. Besides, I am a psychopath. Thought you knew that?" She dropped her knife on a table and twisted her fingers through the piles already on it. The table itself, already a dark wood, was stained with blood. The knife dripped even more onto it. "So what's next?" she asked, still pushing through the green and brown and silver and copper still sitting on the table.

"Please," the man begged again. She ignored him.

"So we've used this," she said, moving a meat pounder from one side of the table to the other. "And this." Her pale fingers lifted a dentist's tool and placed it next to the hammer. "And this - that was fun." She waved a strand of poison ivy wrapped in cloth in front of the man's face and set that down too. "How about . . . this one?" She twisted around to face the man and sat down on a chair in front of him.

The man squirmed, trying to get away from her, but the straps on the chair held him fast. "Come on," the girl complained, pushing a blonde strand off of her glasses. "Just a little bleach. Never hurt anyone, did it?" She unscrewed the lid and held the bottle, balancing it on her knee. "Well," she stated. "Diluted bleach never hurt anyone." She poured a bit of the liquid into a cup and swirled it around. "You'd be incredibly surprised how easy it is to find bleach that isn't diluted. Not common in the grocery store, though, I guess." She stared down into the whirlpool as it moved in a circle. Still spinning the mug, she looked up at the man, only moving her eyes. Her arm snapped up in one quick motion, and the bleach threw itself into his face. A healthy amount landed in his eyes, and just as much on his lips that still dripped sobs and begs with every breath. Then, putting the mug down, she lifted his chin and carefully poured half the bottle into his left eye.

As he shook with more cries, the girl stood. She dropped the cup and bleach back onto the table, picked up a cloth and wiped down her hands. She frowned at the man, brought a finger to her lips, and shushed him. She did it again, then again, and was each time disappointed with his lack of compliance.

"Fine," she sighed. "We can do it that way." She picked up a long, thin piece of wood and twisted it between her fingers. With another long sigh, she pushed on a small piece of metal, revealing a straight razor. She whipped her arm backwards, a nice clean slice. She wiped the blade down, the rag coming away red. She set the blade down, open, on the table and walked out, listening to the man choke on his own blood.

 

When the girl came back the next day to clean up her mess, she found someone else had done it for her. The place was spotless, as if it had been wiped down from top to bottom and soaked in a bottle of bleach. Or maybe a couple bottles. Or a couple dozen.

The body itself was gone, and in its place were about ten small boxes, as well as another man, unrecognizable to the girl. He was sitting on the chair previously occupied by a dead and bloody body, and was whittling an apple. He didn't look up as the girl walked towards him, but instead motioned to the stool in front of him with the knife.

She sat and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and her head on her hands. She pushed her glasses up and studied his thin, moving hands as they twisted the apple around, cutting off pieces and popping them in his mouth.

"Hello, Ms. Payne," he said in a slow, drawling voice. "I'm a big fan of your work." He glanced up at her and moved the knife around, pointing at each box in turn.

She lifted the lid of one, throwing the cardboard back. Inside it was a disfigured and bloody arm, the fingernails nearly pulled off. Her face contorted and turned away. "Oh, that's disgusting," she said, putting the cover back on, but she didn't sound disgusted. She just sounded like she was stating a fact, something that everyone already knew and she was just putting words to it. "Was it really necessary to box it?"

"Yes." He cut off another piece of the apple and offered it to her. "He was making a mess just lying around."

"You're a psychopath," she informed him, standing.

"So are you." He looked up slowly, his eyes tracing her frame, almost teasingly, before meeting her eyes. "Please, sit."

She stood for a moment longer before dropping back down onto the stool. When she finally did so, the man in front of her leaned back and brought the apple to his mouth. She leaned in, quick as a hummingbird, snatching the apple from him before his teeth could touch it. She put her elbows back on her knees and took a bite.

When she swallowed, she said, "So who are you?"

"I like your shirt," he said instead. "It matches my tie."

It did indeed match his tie, which sported tiny skulls. Her own shirt had a much larger, fading skull on it. She shook her head and repeated her question.

"Your new best friend," he answered, after a moment to ponder the question.

She snorted. "Yeah, how 'bout no." With that she stood and made her way to the door. Turning the knob, she paused and glanced over her shoulder. "Love what you've done with the place, by the way."

 

The next day, the girl found herself in the local park. She sat on a bench, scratching into a notebook, occasionally looking up to watch a dog run around when she found herself with block.

As she watched the dog chase a stick for the umpteenth time, the weight on the bench shifted. "Murryn," a cool, almost laughing voice said.

"Psychopath," she answered calmly, writing another thought down.

"What's this?" the man asked, reaching for the notebook.

She snapped it shut a millimeter from his fingers and shoved it into her bag. "Nothing." She brushed her hair back and slung her bag onto her shoulder. A second later, she was walking down a street. She didn't look behind her, but the faint sound of rubber on concrete answered her silent question.

Murryn quickly scanned the road without moving her head. She was still getting used to actually being in England, and found herself confused every time she first glanced down a street. To be honest, being an American in England was probably a safety hazard, but at least she didn't drive.

Spotting a break in traffic, she jogged across the street, hoping the stranger would be deterred at the idea of a chase. Glancing at the reflection in a window proved her wrong. Stepping into an alley as a shortcut to . . . wherever it was she was going, she called behind her, "Don't you have better things to do than chase girls? Or at the very least, someone to do it for you?" Judging by that nice suit, he could surely hire someone to follow her. Or maybe he was the one that was hired . . .

"I do," he said in a much calmer voice, as if she were standing next to him, strolling through a park. "But I've . . . taken an interest."

"In what?" She put her weight on her heel and spun, facing him as she stood in an intersection of alleyways. "Don't you dare say me."

"And if I did?" His jaw snapped up and down as he chewed on a piece of gum.

Murryn tilted her head, looking to the side. Her eyes focused on a faded banner that advertised some sort of ballet or theater production. "Why?"

The stranger twisted his glance to look at her with confusion filling his eyes. "I'm sorry?"

"Why?" she said again. She looked back up at him, still standing exactly where he was, and continued, phrasing each word exact. "Why me? What have I done? Er, no," she corrected, remembering just then exactly what she had done. "Why have you taken an interest in me, and not some other psychotic murderer?"

"Because you're not a murderer." The gum snapped against his teeth like a muffled gunshot. "Are you, Murryn?" He danced forward, taking elegantly long steps toward her, backing her up to the wall behind her. "Murryn Payne, what a wonderful name."

"A murderer is someone who causes the death of another," she recited like a dictionary, proud that her voice wasn't shaking like her heart and her hands.

The strange man tilted his head and made a sound like he was thinking. "I prefer to look at it as someone who enjoys causing the death of another."

Murryn's heart thudded harder in her chest as he took another step towards her. It pulsed with each syllable as she replayed it in her head. Someone who enjoys causing the death of another. Had she enjoyed it? She thought she hadn't - she didn't want to have enjoyed it - but did she?

"I don't think you much liked killing him," he was saying. She changed her focus to his British accent - much more noticeable than her Southern one - trying not to think about anything else. "Now, hurting him-" he smiled a little, like he was the only one aware of a joke that the whole world should know "-you definitely had fun with that. But you only killed him to get it over with." He stopped barely a foot away from her, close enough that if she hadn't been wearing a thin scarf he could have easily looked down her shirt. With no accent to think about now that he was done talking, Murryn focused on his chest, which was right at eye level for her. When he stood there for a moment too long, she slowly looked upwards, towards his face. Movement towards her left caught her attention, his shoulder shifting places. She jerked backwards, putting at least another two feet of distance between them as fast as she could. She spun, twisting her head to a less vulnerable position, waiting for the blow.

It didn't come.

She peeked between her fingers, to see him standing there - still with a smile on his lips - with nothing more sinister than an outstretched arm. She carefully unwrapped her arms from her head and stomach and reached out her own arm, keeping a watchful eye on him for the amount of time it took her to place her hand in his.

"James Moriarty," he exclaimed deftly, shaking her hand once before releasing it.

Murryn opened her mouth to say her own name before remembering he already knew it. She immediately went back to her position as from him as the alleyway could allow. "What do you want from me?" she said instead

"A favor."

 

Murryn pulled at the uncomfortable skirt Jim had talked her into, wishing it was a bit longer. Or better yet, it was paired with her favorite plaid button-up. But no, he had insisted on something . . . revealing. She understood the purpose. She just didn't like how it had to include not only the outfit, but the outcome.

"Hey, there, baby," a guy said, sitting down at the bar next to her. "Can I buy you a drink?"

She smiled as sweetly as she could while barfing inside and nodded. He signaled to the bartender, and a minute later they both had a beer in front of them. The pervert had attempted multiple times at conversation, all the while sliding his hand on her knee, but she just smiled and tried not to punch him in the throat.

When she saw Jim appear in the doorway and nod to her, Murryn removed the guy's hand from her knee and led him outside, to a hidden alley. His other hand went to her hip and turned her around to face him.

Her hand jerked forward like she was having a muscle spasm and punched him square in the nose. As he stumbled backwards, her left hand came around and backhanded him so hard on the cheek, the crack started a ringing noise in her ear.

When the noise dissipated, she walked away. The man was clutching at his nose, shiny red dots appearing between his fingers. She slowed to almost a stop next to Jim, saying, "He's all yours." In another second, she had disappeared beyond the corner.

 

As she pulled her shirt over her head - a dark blue one that did not show off nearly as much as the bright red one Jim had suggested - the car door opened. She tried not to show how much she had jumped, surprised that he was done after - what? Five minutes?

"Back so soon?" Murryn stated, hoping it sounded like she was expecting him.

Moriarty ripped off his plastic gloves and reached over, past Murryn to shove them in the glove compartment. A small drop of scarlet landed on her jeans. "Didn't want to scare the poor fellow," he said, as if he actually cared about his emotions. "Just needed to get it over with. Didn't need a big scene that time."

Life went on like that for Murryn. Jim would get her help killing or torturing anyone he had a grudge against - and he had a grudge against nearly everyone he'd ever met. And that was just in the country. He had asked for her to go to France with him, but had declined so as to have quick access to her family, just in case. They were still recovering from the mental damage of their attacker, and probably always would be.

Despite his obvious psychoticness, Jim never made her do anything she was uncomfortable with. After that first vic, she never had to wear a ridiculous skirt, and anytime someone touched her where and when she didn't want to be, Jim gave her the courtesy of ripping his jugular from his skin. As strange as life had become, Murryn had grown very accustomed to the hunt and kill. She couldn't - wouldn't - say she enjoyed it, but she had most certainly grown used to it.

Jim had started to become less weird around her. Or maybe she was just getting used to his specific brand of weird. She wasn't sure which idea terrified her more. Either way, it meant she was spending too much time with the psychopath.

He had even started telling her stories of his life, which she listened to with more interest than he required. Her favorite stories were when he talked about Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective who had faked his own death. Jim had lead him to the roof of a hospital building and told him he had to die to save his friends. After Jim pretended to kill himself to insure that there would be no way to stop his assassins, Sherlock had jumped off the building and pretending to kill himself, also. The appearance of a dead body insured that the assassins would leave Sherlock's friends alone, and neither suspected that the other had lived.

Murryn had heard of Sherlock Holmes, of course, even Fox News had heard of him. She knew the story from multiple retellings on many different sites, but she loved how Jim told it. He had a flare for the dramatics, which made his storytelling much better to listen to than the news. She would constantly ask him to tell it again on the way to their next target.

Which is what he was doing now as they drove to a bookstore in a stolen blue Ford Fiesta. ". . . And I reached into my pocket with my left hand," he said, demonstrating with on hand on the wheel.

"What was his face like?" Murryn was positioned in the left seat so that she could watch him, one hand pressed against the dash to keep her balanced. "Was he shocked? Did he know what you were doing?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he stole a glance at her. "Haven't I told you this before?"

She rolled her own eyes and groaned. "Fine. Then . . . what did he look like? You've never told me what he looks like before."

"Tall," he said immediately. "But not as tall as people usually think he is. And his hair - black and curly. Like he just rolled out of bed." Murryn giggled at his description, imagining a tall, curly-haired man crawl from bed and onto a roof, only to jump off it. "He wore a, uh . . . trenchcoat, dark colored, with the collar turned up and a blue scarf on. He's pale you know," he added, scratching his chin.

"Really?" Murryn wasn't sure what she had pictured before, but for some reason, pale wasn't part of it.

"Yup, pale as an apple core."

She continued asking him questions, noting the faint glow in his eyes whenever it had to do with Sherlock. She was still asking questions by the time they pulled up to the store and climbed out. As soon as they walked through the doors, though, he shushed her and put on a fake pair of glasses. She didn't understand why he liked such simple disguises that did nothing for him, since anyone would be able to recognize him if he simply took the glasses off, but he insisted on it.

He led her to a table of newly released books, none of which she'd actually heard of, and they both picked one up and pretended to read. It struck her then just how much time she had spent with Jim if she didn't even recognize any of the new books. Maybe it was just the difference of being out of America, but for some reason, she figured it was more.

A sudden poke to her ribcage brought Murryn out of her haze. She glanced up at Jim, who nodded at a woman in the history section. She nodded back at him and put the book down. Twisting her hair up into a bun and straightening her glasses, she walked over to him.

"Can I help you?"

The woman looked her up and down. "Do you work here?" she asked.

"No, but I practically live in bookstores." She glanced at the woman's book. Mistresses: A History of the Other Woman. "Plus, you looked a little lost. I can help you find anything, if you want it."

At the end, the woman relented, and walked away with The Devil in the White City and Blood Horses: Notes of a Sportswriter's Son, as well as the book Murryn had originally found her with. After she was thanked and the woman checked out, Murryn went back to Jim, still pretending to read. She tugged on his elbow and followed the woman outside.

"So what did this one do?" she asked when she heard Jim's footsteps behind her. Every vic had a story - though Murryn was not always able to hear them.

"Doesn't matter." This was one of those times.

They followed the woman at a far enough pace so as to not make it obvious, still keeping her in sight. On occasion, she glanced behind her shoulder, but didn't seem to notice the two of them.

"What's her name?"

They walked a few more paces before Jim awarded her with an answer. "Mary Tompkins."

It wasn't a name Murryn recognized from his stories, so whatever she had done had either been too terrible to mention, or too minute.

Mary took a left turn on the sidewalk, heading down a crack between two buildings. Murryn sighed. "Why does everything have to happen in an alleyway?" she wondered to no one in particular.

The pair followed, and found her standing with a switchblade in her hand. Unsure what to expect in the first place, Murryn was a little shocked, but Jim paid no attention. He made a sweeping bow towards her and said to Murryn, "After you." Murryn nodded gratefully and pulled out her own blade. She thought, not for the first time, how cool it would be if she could actually aim and throw correctly, because throwing knives were pretty awesome, but she knew that wasn't going to happen.

Mary charged. Shocked by the sudden thought of fight, rather than flight, Murryn stood, unsure what to do. At the last second, Jim shoved Mary, causing her to trip and land to Murryn's left. Jim kicked at her stomach, and the knife fell from her grip. He kicked her again, and again, and again.

Murryn hollered at him, telling him to stop, just stop, there wasn't a reason to kick her, but he didn't answer or stop. She didn't actually know if there was a reason to kick her or not. Jim hadn't actually told her anything about this woman except that he was going to kill her. And she had gone along with it . . .

"Jim, stop!" she said one more time, out of desperation.

He did. He stopped kicking her, standing upright to face her. A crazed look was in his eyes, and his lips were set in a grimace. Her snapped his head sideways to fling the hair - which had grown in their time together - out of his eyes. He stared at her, breathing heavily, looking in all the world like he was going to kill her when he was done with Mary.

Murryn thought as quick as she could, trying to come up with a good reason as to why Jim should stop kicking the poor woman, but the only thing she could come up with was even worse. She said it anyways. "If you keep kicking her, she'll get internal bleeding." Jim gave her a look that clearly said "So?" She took a deep breath and continued. "Just . . . skip that and give her external bleeding."

He smiled his crazy smile and picked her up in a twirling hug. "And that's why I love you." He set her back down and picked up the girl's - Mary's - knife.

"If you two," the girl said, gasping, "are going . . . to . . . have a moment . . . you mind leaving me out of it?" Jim ignored her and picked her up by her hair.

"I thought you were gay," Murryn said casually, as if torturing people was a part of everyday life - and to her, it had become it.

"Not surprised," Jim answered, bringing the blade across Mary's arm. "Wouldn't be the first time."

A few cuts later, Murryn said, "So . . . you're not?"

"Gay?" Another cut, and this time a scream. "No, course not. If I was, would I do this?" He dropped Mary and the knife, grabbed Murryn by the waist, and kissed her.

 

 


End file.
